


Anger Maketh Man

by Jackdaw816



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Angry Kissing, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, One Night Stands, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:19:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27513703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jackdaw816/pseuds/Jackdaw816
Summary: Escape comes in many forms
Relationships: John Hart/Mark Lynch
Comments: 4
Kudos: 7





	Anger Maketh Man

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sorry

The landing was rough, and the now-former Time Agent fell to his knees. He bit back nausea as he stumbled to his feet. Right, the consequences of impromptu jumps. Nausea, headaches, heightened combustibility - he quickly tamped out the flame on his trouser leg - and of course, the most important consequence. The risk that you’ve ended up nowhere you wanted at all. 

He looked around, but luckily, he didn’t spot any people. He was in some sort of back alley. Now that was a comfort. A lot of his best work had been done in back alleys. After another quick sweep to make certain he was alone, he lifted his right arm and flipped open his vortex manipulator.

Granted, he hadn’t had a location in mind when he’d jumped. His only thoughts were ‘away’ and ‘safe,’ and he’d programmed it accordingly. But the numbers winking up at him still had him stunned. 

2007? He’d been aiming for the 4010s, not the 2010s. Goddesses. But at least he’d hit a planet, probably Earth herself. It’d been years since he’d been to Earth. Maybe he’d poke around, get a drink before leaving again. Was probably best, didn’t want to make another incorrect jump.

With that in mind, he left the alley. Taking in the passersby, he was relieved to notice that he blended in quite passably. Jeans and a leather jacket really were staples of human fashion. With his weapons hidden, no one gave him a second glance. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. It was the cheekbones, absolutely irresistible.

He found a bar easily, the music blasting so loud he could feel the vibration in the air. He couldn’t make out the lyrics; he wondered if it was a translation error or if the singer just wasn’t enunciating enough. His money was on the latter.

A little flirting with the bartender and a few bills from a pickpocketed wallet got the drinks flowing. He started to relax. He’d made it out. And even if the Agency sent someone after him - he doubted it, they were falling apart - 2007 in whatever city he was in would be the last place they’d check. He was safe.

A fist slammed on the bar beside him and he turned, raising an eyebrow. A bloke was glowering at him, but he reeked of the twenty-first century. Just a common village idiot.

“Is there a problem?” he enquired drolly, taking another swig of his drink. The bloke kept glaring.

“That’s my girl you’re chatting up, mate,” the bloke sneered. The bartender shot him an apologetic look, but he just shrugged.

“Jealous?” he asked, swiveling to face the raging bloke. “I’ll chat you up too if you like.” The bloke threw a punch, and he laughed as he dodged. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a man at the far end of the bar eyeing them with interest. Then the bloke threw another punch and his attention was drawn back to the fight.

It was child’s play. One drunk idiot was nothing compared to some of the battles he’d fought. A swift hit to the jaw and the bloke went down. He sensed someone approaching from behind him and turned around to see the man from the far end of the bar hit the bloke’s buddy, his would-be assailant, over the head with a beer bottle.

“Run,” he said, dropping the bottle. He was sort of hot, and the bartender was reaching for a phone, so he nodded, took a final swig of his vodka, and followed him out of the bar.

They jogged a couple of blocks before the stranger halted, leaning up against a wall and holding up a finger. He waited, mildly concerned that he was having an asthma attack or some other retro ailment. Then the stranger looked up, and he realized he was laughing.

“Good show,” the man wheezed, straightening up. “He didn’t know what he had coming to him.” He grinned.

“Thanks for the assist,” he said, looking him over carefully. He seemed native too, but one could never be sure. “You’re handy with a beer bottle.”

“That’s not the only thing I’m handy with,” the stranger said. He held out his hand, an old-fashioned greeting. “Mark. Mark Lynch.”

“John,” he replied, pulling the first name he could remember from this time. He shook Mark’s hand, noticing half-healed bruises on his knuckles. He must make a habit of getting into fights. John liked his style. Mark smiled at him.

“No last name?” Mark asked, curious, but not accusatory. John shrugged.

“And lose my air of mystery? Where’s the fun in that?” Mark looked him over with a mixture of curiosity and appreciation. He could be a bit of fun. “Want to find another bar? You can buy me a drink.” Mark laughed.

“Bold, I like it,” he replied. John smirked. “But not tonight. I have a… prior engagement.” John raised an eyebrow. That phrasing meant something illicit ninety percent of the time. Whatever it was, he wanted in.

“Pity,” John said coyly. He hooked his thumbs into his belt, pushing back his jacket and casually revealing the hilt of the weapon tucked inside. He was ready to play rough. Sure enough, Mark’s gaze flickered over him, and his smile went from friendly to something a little darker. John’d be lying if he said he didn’t like it.

“Can I ask you something, John?” Mark said, voice a couple notes lower. 

“Shoot.”

“What’s your outlet?” John raised an eyebrow. “For the anger,” Mark clarified. “I saw you in that bar. You were looking for a fight.”

“I was looking for a drink and a shag.” He didn’t miss how Mark’s expression shifted oh-so-slightly. “But I seem to attract trouble these days.” He stretched his arms above him, feeling the muscles tense and relax, knowing his shirt was riding up and showing just a sliver of skin. “So, no, I don’t have an outlet. I don’t need one.”

“Bullshit,” Mark said lightly. The dark look in his eyes returned. “And I can prove it.”

“Oh?”

“Come with me, and I’ll show you mine,” he invited, exactly as John wanted. Hook, line, and sinker, bitch. John raised an eyebrow, then smiled. He clapped a hand on Mark’s shoulder.

“Lead the way.” 

* * *

They were at some sort of docks; the smell of fish and salt air was unmistakable. Mark led him through a maze of warehouses, not talking but not silent either. John didn’t mind. He wasn’t one for idle chatter, not unless he was the one doing the chattering. 

They finally came upon a warehouse with a sign on the outside marking it as the property of ‘LynchFrost.’

“For Mark Lynch, no doubt,” John said, nodding his head at the sign when Mark looked his way. Mark nodded.

“I’m in real estate; I manage all sorts of properties across Cardiff.” So he was in Cardiff, John noted. May be an important detail later. “But this one best suits our needs.” He unlocked the door, and John raised an eyebrow.

“Our?” Mark nodded and pushed the door open.

“Come and meet the boys, John.” Mark entered the warehouse, John right on his heels. It was dark for a couple of moments, and John wondered if this had really been the best move. Then the room opened up into the bulk of the warehouse, lit well enough to see but not enough to completely eliminate the gloom. There were a couple of couches and a couple dozen men scattered around, but John’s attention was instantly drawn by the cage in the center of the room. 

It was chainlink, and by the looks of it, meant to be set up and torn down quickly. Inside, two men were brawling. That was the only word for it; it was too rough for sparring but not quite a duel to the death. He watched, enraptured, as the smaller man found an opening and brought his opponent crashing to the ground. John smiled, then noticed Mark watching him.

“Like it?” Mark inquired politely. John nodded. “They’re all men like us. Rich, successful, and bored out of their fucking skulls. Here, we find meaning.” There were worse reasons to fight, John supposed. Although it seemed like he’d given Mark the wrong impression. He was none of those things, but that didn’t mean he didn’t crave the adrenaline rush that came from a little fear and pain. The universe’s most natural high.

John watched as the fallen man was dragged out of the ring and the winner’s hand was raised in victory. “We fight. And we drink. And we bet. And it makes the day-to-day tedium a little easier to swallow,” Mark continued. He looked John over again. “You want in?” John nodded.

“I’m not long in town,” John warned, slipping his jacket off his shoulders. Mark looked almost disappointed but nodded. 

“Usually, it costs to get in the ring, but I run this show so I’ll let you slide,” Mark explained, eyeing John in a way that felt very nice indeed. “I’ll go talk to my second, get you in next round.” John nodded, and Mark walked off. 

Once he was gone, John moved quickly. He knelt to make sure the laces of his boots were well-knotted and that the knife holster on his left ankle was secure. Then he wrapped his jacket around his gun, concealing it in a hopefully casual move. He was only very lightly armed; most of his favorite toys were scattered about his safehouses. Here he was more worried about spooking the locals than losing a backup gun.

“You’re in,” Mark said when he reappeared a few moments later. “C’mon.”

“Who am I fighting?” John asked, following him to the cage. He scanned the crowd; none of them looked like a real threat, but you couldn’t trust appearances alone.

“Him,” Mark said, pointing to the man now entering the cage. Maybe an inch or two taller than John, dusty blond, muscular arms but thin legs. “Name’s Paul, he’s a bank manager.” 

“Joy,” John drawled. They reached the cage door themselves, and John dropped his jacket. “Any rules?”

“Fight until one of you stays down and try not to kill him,” Mark said matter-of-factly.

“Noted,” John said, rolling his shoulders. Mark laid a hand on his arm.

“You ready?” John smirked at him, all white teeth and confidence.

“Always.” Mark nodded, and John entered the cage.

* * *

Paul had been a pushover. Alright, maybe not a pushover. He had managed to get in a clean shot to John’s nose, sending blood trickling down his face. But he hadn’t broken it, and he was a bit of a one-trick pony. Once John got him off-balance, it was over in seconds.

John stood, one hand raised in victory, blood on his lips, skin humming with the familiar static of adrenaline, his eyes searching the crowd for Mark. He spotted him easily, applauding with the others. Mark was definitely checking him out now, although John got the feeling he’d deny it if asked outright. Stupid century. Good thing John didn’t need to ask him outright. 

He stepped over Paul’s fallen form and made a beeline for the cage door. They let him out, and Mark met him on the other side. 

“You’re very-” Mark started, but John grabbed him by the wrist and pulled him away. There had to be a backroom around here somewhere. John took it as a good sign that Mark wasn’t protesting being dragged along. 

After a minute or two of looking uselessly, Mark chimed in, “There’s an office on the upper floor.” John grinned but didn’t otherwise acknowledge him, setting course for the stairs. Upstairs, the roar of the crowd was quieter, but not completely muted. Finding the office, John pulled Mark inside and slammed the door shut.

“I was right,” Mark said amusedly. “You did need an outlet.” John pushed him up against the door with a solid bang.

“Shut up,” John growled. He was still floating on the adrenal high, and he was in no mood for a Luddite to take the mickey out of him. Mark arched an eyebrow.

“Make me,” he challenged, and John closed the distance between them with a punishing kiss. Mark kissed back just as forcefully, and John couldn’t help the grin. He snaked a leg between Mark’s and wrapped a hand around the back of his neck. Mark bucked his hips forward, and John couldn’t help the noise he made into Mark’s mouth. John loved fucking after fights; everything felt heightened, and the residual pain was easily overwhelmed by pleasure.

John pulled back to catch his breath and used the moment to look around. As much fun as it would be to take him up against the door, that might get a little too noisy, and John was in no mood to be interrupted. Luckily, there was a worn-looking couch tucked away in the corner of the office. No doubt put there by someone else looking to get lucky.

“Move,” John gasped, trying his best not to get distracted by how Mark was now marking his way along his neck. “Couch. Now.”

“Yes, sir,” Mark said sarcastically, but damn him if that didn’t go straight to his cock. John pulled back and all but dragged Mark over to the couch. Clothing was quickly discarded, and they met for another sloppy kiss, all intention and no finesse. They collapsed in a pile of hands and lips and teeth. 

* * *

“That was good,” Mark murmured afterward, voice rough. John made a noise of agreement, face pressed into a cushion. With this sort of fuck, the high was great and the crash was imminent. He forced himself to sit up; he couldn’t fall asleep here. 

He sorted through the mess of fabric on the ground, tossing Mark’s clothes at him as he pulled his own trousers on. Maybe he could convince Mark to invite him back to his place. They could fuck some more, maybe get a drink, and then John could disappear before the sun rose. He was good at that. But as he pulled his shirt over his head, he heard a familiar beep. 

“Shit,” John spat through a layer of fabric. Shirt on, he ignored Mark’s curious look and flipped open his bracer. Oh, fuck. There was another vortex manipulator in the city. _Shit._ They had to be after him, what were the chances? He closed it quickly and started pulling on his boots.

“What’s going on?” Mark asked curiously. John glanced at him; his hair was tousled, and his lips were red and swollen. He looked fucking amazing, and it was a damn shame that John had to get the fuck out of Dodge.

“I have to go,” John said, looking away and lacing up the second boot. “Problem at work.” It was sort of true if you ignored the fact that he was the problem.

“What kind of work calls you in the middle of the night?” Mark asked skeptically. “And what kind of phone was that?” John chuckled.

“The fun kind,” he answered before wrapping a hand around Mark’s neck and pulling him in for a final kiss. 

“You are quite the enigma, John,” Mark said once they broke apart. John stood with a shrug and a grin.

“It becomes me,” John said, smirking. He winked and left, leaving Mark half-dressed and sated on the couch. In the hall, he flipped his bracer open again. Farewell, Mark Lynch. And farewell to the Time Agent in Cardiff, that poor sod. If they wanted to catch him, they’d have to try a lot harder.


End file.
